My Brother's Honor
by IcyWaters
Summary: Yancy will stop at nothing to clear his late brother's name when a retired Union officer arrives in New Orleans and boasts of having executed David Derringer for treason during the war.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: _Yancy Derringer_ debuted October 2, 1958 on CBS. The show was created by Mary Loos and Richard Sale, and produced by Derringer Productions. I do not know who owns the current rights to this great series, but it sadly isn't me.

Author's Note: This story is dedicated to the cast and crew who made _Yancy _so memorable.

* * *

"_You inside the law. Me outside the law. Same law."_

—Yancy Derringer, "Gallatin Street"

**My Brother's Honor**

**Chapter 1  
"Escape"**

"The game is five-card stud, gentlemen." Madame Francine dealt a face down card to each of the three gamblers seated at her table, followed by a second card face up. "Nine of hearts. Queen of diamonds. Ten of clubs. Queen bets."

James Beauregard, sitting directly across from Francine and one of the charter members of her private club, opened by tossing fifty dollars in the pot. The other two players called.

"Seven of hearts. Five of clubs. Two of spades. Your bet again, Mr. Beauregard."

The wager circled around once, all participants remaining in the game, and the beautiful blonde proprietress dealt the third round of cards. "Eight of hearts. Five of hearts. Ten of spades." Francine looked to her right. "Pair of tens bets."

"Let's keep this friendly, shall we? A simple one hundred dollars." Yancy Derringer smiled as he dropped a gold coin on top of the growing pile of money. He was as debonair as ever in the custom tailored white suit, ruffled shirt and silk necktie. Pahoo-Ka-Ta-Wah, his loyal Pawnee friend and blood brother, stood stoically by the wall a few feet behind him, alert to every movement in the room.

"Fair enough." Isaac Morgan, a barrel-chested man in his late forties with dark hair and even darker eyes, occupied the chair to Francine's left. He had an East Coast accent, probably Boston, and held a guest pass to her club. Morgan called, as did Beauregard.

The final round came into play. "Six of hearts for a possible straight flush. Three of clubs. Two of diamonds, making two pair—tens and deuces—with a possible full house. Your bet, Yancy."

He glanced at the man across from him. "Considering Mr. Beauregard's five of hearts cut your chances of a straight flush in half, I'll wager five hundred." Yancy pushed a stack of coins toward the pot.

Morgan leaned back in his chair, holding the gaze and studying his opponent. "That's big talk for two pair—and I'm confident that's all you have. I'll raise five hundred."

Beauregard turned his cards face down. "I fold."

"The bet is five hundred to you, Yancy," Francine said.

"Let's raise it another five hundred."

Morgan didn't blink. "That's a nice number. Another five hundred."

Yancy grinned. "I'll take pity on the newcomer to our fair city and call."

Morgan flipped over his hole card. "Ace high flush."

"Remember how I said Mr. Beauregard's five of hearts cut your odds in half? My little old ten of hearts did away with the remaining half." Yancy turned the card over to reveal a full house, tens over deuces.

"Well played, sir," Morgan offered. "I was certain you were bluffing."

"Just keep that same line of thought next time we meet at poker." Yancy gathered his winnings, stood and offered his arm to Francine. "May I buy you a drink?"

"Please do." As they walked to the end of the bar, Francine observed Pahoo signing to Yancy. He replied with a short nod and Pahoo left by way of the front door. She was about to question her friend, half-expecting her place to be shot up again, when Morgan leaned on the counter further down from them.

"Since I have all your money,"—Yancy playfully jingled his pouch of coins—"allow me to treat, Mr.? I don't believe I caught your name." He ordered three glasses of champagne from the bartender.

"Isaac Morgan," the man said, offering his hand for a firm shake.

"Yancy Derringer."

"Derringer," Morgan repeated. "Any relation to David Derringer?"

Francine looked up to see a flicker of emotion in Yancy's eyes. He kept his arm around her waist as he raised the champagne goblet to his lips. Only after he took a sip did he answer. "My brother." While Yancy remained outwardly nonchalant, she heard the trace of wistfulness in his voice.

"Well, what do you know? It's a small world, Derringer."

"How is that?"

Morgan flashed a vile smirk. "I'm the Union officer who executed your brother for treason."

Francine felt Yancy's muscles tense as he inhaled a sharp breath. She placed a calming hand on his chest, but Morgan didn't let up with the taunts. Some of the members in closer proximity halted their betting to watch the scene. The string quartet stopped playing music. "You need to leave my club, Mr. Morgan. Now."

"Oh, but Madame Francine, your friend should know how his brother—a Confederate spy who betrayed his country and his cause—died a coward, begging for his life as he stood before my firing squad."

Yancy slammed the goblet on the bar and launched a fist that connected with Morgan's jaw, sending the braggart flying over a table and crashing to the floor. Everyone in the room gasped and huddled near the walls. Yancy pulled the four-barrel Sharps derringer from his sleeve.

Francine scanned the room. The bartender remained frozen at the other end, but Pearl Girl, with a bottle of bourbon in her grasp, was only a few steps behind Yancy. Fearful he might do something to earn a date with a noose, she quickly signaled for the hostess to hit him on the head. Pearl Girl's eyes went wide, but she did it, the bottle shattering as it crashed down on his skull.

An unconscious Yancy collapsed to the floor.

* * *

A soft groan emanated from the figure stirring awake on the bunk beneath the window. "Uh, what happened?" Eyelids fluttering open, Yancy's hand moved from massaging his temple to probing the back of his bruised skull. "If my noggin didn't hurt so bad, I'd think someone knocked it clear off."

John Colton chuckled, relieved to see his friend alert, complete with his sense of humor intact. He stopped the game of solitaire and scooted the chair away from the table. "Francine instructed Pearl Girl to keep you in check."

"Pearl Girl hit me?" Yancy sniffed his fingers. "Did she give me a bath in bourbon, too?"

"The bottle shattered. Apparently, you have a remarkably hard head."

"That's what my daddy used to say." Yancy grinned and attempted to sit up. Colton held him steady as he swung his legs over the side of the cot. "At least she used the good stuff."

"Must have been. You were out cold for a little more than an hour. The doctor came by to examine you earlier. You're lucky as usual. Not even a scratch from the broken shards, just a nasty bump."

"In other words, I'm going to live?"

"This is nothing to joke about." Colton stood with his knuckles on his hips. "You should thank both Francine and Pearl Girl. The man you nearly killed is Lieutenant Colonel Isaac Morgan, a retired army officer sailing for Europe in two day's time on a vital diplomatic mission. He hails from a very wealthy and immensely powerful Massachusetts family."

"I read a little about him in the paper. Is that why I'm in the calaboose and not a hospital?"

"At the minimum, you're facing charges of assault and attempted murder."

"I wasn't going to kill him."

"That's comforting to learn after the fact." The federal administrator sighed. His underground agent had a knack for getting neck deep in trouble. "I don't have the faintest idea how I'm going to get you out of this mess. I'll try to reason with Morgan in the morning."

Yancy glanced around the cell. "Where's Pahoo?"

"According to Francine, he checked on you then left the club. No one's seen him since." Dread suddenly washed over Colton. "Should I be worried?"

"No, Pahoo won't do anything foolish. He knows where to find me."

Colton sat down heavily on the bunk next to Yancy. "Francine told me what Morgan said about your brother. I'm sorry." He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "Atrocities were committed by both sides. In no way does it excuse what Morgan did, but we were at war—a brutal war I pray we never see the likes of again. Our soil is saturated with the blood of too many good men."

Yancy settled against the wall with an unreadable expression on his face.

Colton had an overwhelming urge to make this right. Yancy risked life and limb to help him clean up New Orleans. He was a Southern aristocrat who had every reason to be bitter for all he lost, but he chose to be friends with everybody who crossed his path, regardless of their background. It was an admirable trait.

"I recognize this is a million to one long shot, Yancy, but I'll pull some strings and cash in a few favors owed to me in Washington. If Morgan tried your brother against protocol, perhaps a sympathetic ear will launch an investigation and bring him to justice."

"I'm honored you would do that, John, but I wish you let me finish what I was saying earlier." At Colton's raised eyebrow, Yancy continued, "I wasn't going to kill him. I want to know why he was lying."

"Lying? What do you mean?"

"My brother was killed in action at Chickamauga, Mr. Colton. He was never captured by Union forces and he was not executed for treason."

"What reason does Morgan have to lie?"

Yancy shrugged. "That's precisely what I want to find out. It's strange how he made it a point to announce David was a Confederate spy."

"Was he?"

"Yes. He worked for the Confederate Secret Service, the same as me, only David earned his rank of captain whereas I won it with a four of a kind." Yancy flashed a devilish grin. "He crossed in and out of Yankee territory more than I ever did. My brother looked dapper in your Union blue."

"Some details are better left unsaid, Mr. Derringer," Colton quipped. "Did you see your brother much during the war?"

"Only a handful of times. He was with his bride in Memphis when hostilities broke out. David enlisted in Tennessee and I in Louisiana. The last time we saw each other was in Richmond, about a month before he took off to Georgia on an assignment. Turned out to be his last one."

Colton rubbed his hands over his face. "Records are easily checked. Morgan risks his own credibility with the accusation. This doesn't do much to explain—" He stopped short and rose to his feet when the iron door separating the cells from the jailer's office creaked open. "I stipulated no interruptions."

The turnkey cleared his throat. "I thought you'd like to know Yancy's—uh, Mr. Derringer's—Pawnee friend is here, Mr. Administrator."

"Permit him to enter."

The turnkey stepped aside and motioned for Pahoo to go in. Sneaking a quick wave to Yancy, he then returned to his office. Pahoo joined the two inside the cell without his scattergun and knife. After greeting the administrator, he began a long series of signs.

Yancy interrupted him once with a snort. "Should have let Pearl Girl at him with a bottle of bourbon."

Colton turned to Yancy for a translation.

"Pahoo noticed a suspicious figure outside the club during my game with Morgan. He thought he glimpsed a brief exchange between them, so he went to investigate. There was a man—short, wiry, blond, light beard—keeping to the shadows on one side of the French doors, doing his worse to look inconspicuous. When I slugged Morgan, the man drew a pistol and aimed at me. Pahoo knocked him out."

"He's fortunate Pahoo didn't pack him full of buckshot."

Yancy laughed softly. "After making sure I was alive, he went outside to round up my would-be assassin for Captain Fry. By then, a small crowd gathered, the man woke up and staggered off. Pahoo followed him straight to the King Louis hotel."

"And?" Colton urged, glancing between the two.

"Where he waited for the arrival of the man I bested at poker—Isaac Morgan."

"Then it was all a set-up."

"In a mad rage, this old Johnny Reb, with a reputation for troublemaking ways, pulls a pistol on a noted diplomat. A concerned citizen shoots me, saving Morgan from the clutches of death. The earlier declaration about my brother is lost in the ensuing commotion, creating an open and shut case. I believe the law calls it justifiable homicide."

"It's deliberate, cold-blooded murder." Colton paced the cell. "Why does he want you dead?"

Yancy shrugged. "Never met him until tonight."

"Are you positive you haven't encountered Morgan before? You didn't identify Senator Yardley as your Union contact Colonel Daggert until you heard his voice clearly."

"Don't forget, I played poker with Morgan. If we had ever crossed paths, I would have recognized him. In this case, I think the colonel doth protest too much. He was adamant—too adamant—about David betraying his country and his cause. What if he's the real traitor?"

"Your brother's own version of Colonel Daggert?"

"If it ever came out that Morgan sold Union secrets during the war, his reputation and family name would be ruined. He arrives in New Orleans and discovers the Derringer line isn't dead. He can't risk the possibility David passed information onto me, so he takes steps to ensure his past indiscretions never see the light of day."

"Yancy,"—Colton's blood ran cold—"the president entrusted Morgan to reaffirm political ties with our European allies. If he sold secrets to the Confederates, what's to stop him from selling classified information to our enemies overseas?" He ran anxious fingers through his red hair as the full ramifications sank in. "In her short history, the United States has never been more vulnerable than she is now. We are a country still divided and marred by open wounds. We cannot afford to engage in another war, not financially and not the loss of life." He grabbed his hat from the table. "I need to telegraph Washington immediately."

"And tell them what? It's your word against his. If Morgan's family is as well connected as you say, it puts your career at risk. New Orleans needs you, Mr. Colton."

"Then what do you suggest we do?"

"We prove what kind of man he really is." Yancy indicated the bars. "I can't do that from in here."

"I'll issue a writ of habeas corpus—"

"An entire room full of people witnessed me strike down and draw a pistol on Morgan," Yancy said. "I doubt a judge will order my release."

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but you've escaped the calaboose with ease in the past. I don't see why that should change now. I'll inform Captain Fry of the situation and put him in charge of the search. He's fond of you; it won't be difficult to convince him to let you stay a few steps ahead. Be careful, though. Morgan has a small detachment with him; they'll be gunning for you."

"Thank you, John." Yancy stood, shaking off a brief unsteadiness. "Will you do me a favor? Send a telegram to Mrs. Nellie Derringer in Memphis. Inquire if David had any friends in the service who might live around New Orleans. Sign my name."

"It's late. She may not get it until morning. Where do I find you?"

Yancy grinned. "Pahoo will find you."

Colton arched an eyebrow. "Could he make a little noise this time?"

The Pawnee signed. Yancy pressed an index finger to his nose. "He'll try."

"Good luck. Pahoo, don't let him get into too much trouble." Colton smiled, understanding the reply loud and clear. He called for the turnkey. "I trust you will keep the prisoner secure this time."

"Yes, Mr. Administrator," he replied, fumbling with the key ring. "Of course, Mr. Administrator."

When Colton disappeared behind the door leading to the office, Yancy curled his finger for friend jailer to come closer before locking the cell. He draped his arm over the shorter man's shoulders. "I need to get out of here."

"I don't blame you, Yancy. I heard what the colonel said about your brother. He shouldn't talk about your family that way." He nervously glanced toward the door and lowered his voice. "It's not going to be easy escaping. Two of his soldiers have orders to stand guard. They don't trust me."

"It makes things challenging, not impossible."

"That's why I thought you might need this." Peering over his shoulder once more, the turnkey reached into his coat and extracted a four-barrel Sharps derringer. "They carried you in here. It's not my fault they failed to check you thoroughly for weapons."

Genuinely appreciative of the gesture, Yancy pressed his lips together to suppress the laugh waiting to escape. "Thank you, friend jailer."

"Are you going to overpower me again?"

"No." Yancy rubbed his aching skull. "Bells are still ringing in my ears. I don't have the heart to knock you on the head tonight." He signed to Pahoo.

"Then what's the plan?"

Pahoo took up position in the cell across the way, sidling against the wall to keep out of view. "This." In one effortless motion, he spun friend jailer around, grasped him in a chokehold and pressed the derringer to his temple. "Call for help."

"H–Help! Help!"

Morgan's two guards rushed in with rifles at the ready.

"Drop your weapons," Yancy ordered, "or the turnkey here gets it."

One of the soldiers assessed the situation, keeping his Spencer repeating rifle lowered at his waist. The younger and cockier of the two smirked while raising the butt of his rifle to his shoulder, his finger poised on the trigger as he lined up the sight.

Friend jailer gasped. "He's going to shoot me!"

"He's aiming at me," Yancy said.

"If he misses, it's my blood that's going to be spilled. And I like it right where it's at."

Pahoo snuck behind the two little boys in blue and grabbed the raised barrel with both hands. Using a quick jab, he conked the private on the skull. The other soldier stared agape. By the time he recovered enough to lift his weapon, Pahoo delivered another well-aimed jab.

"We had everything under control, friend jailer." Yancy released his chokehold on the turnkey.

"The next time, will you stick to knocking me out? It's better than being used as a human shield."

Yancy laughed. "And here I thought I was being gentle." He signed to Pahoo. "We need to make sure they don't cause too much trouble too soon."

"There's some rope in the office." Friend jailer fetched it. When Yancy began helping Pahoo drag the unconscious guards into the cell, he stopped him. "Hey, take an easy, Yance. That was some blow to the head you took. I'll help Pahoo."

Yancy hid his amusement at the sight of friend jailer and Pahoo tying up two army privates. When they finished, the turnkey sat in a chair. "Make it look good. I don't want to get in trouble with Mr. Colton."

Pahoo secured him while Yancy tied a gag over his mouth. He patted the man on the shoulder. "Thank you again, friend jailer." With that, they gathered their weapons from the office and took their leave.


	2. Chapter 2

**My Brother's Honor**

**Chapter 2  
"The Drunken Gator"**

Blanketed by the soft radiance of the moon, Yancy crouched in the shrubs behind Waverly. The manor house was dark with the exception of a flickering light emanating from a rear window. Pahoo joined him after circling the property, signaling the coast was clear. They approached the back entrance.

Yancy peered in through the open curtains to find Obadiah puttering around the spacious kitchen wearing a burgundy robe over his bedclothes. The elderly black caretaker of the Derringer plantation placed a teakettle on the stove and moved toward the cupboard. He spun on his heels and nearly dropped the porcelain cup in his hand when the door opened.

"Marse Yancy, you do know how to give an old man a fright." His momentary dismay melted into a warm smile. "I sure am glad to see you safe and sound. Captain Fry and his men left here no more than half an hour ago. Said you broke out of jail after trying to kill a colonel."

"Now don't you go believing everything you hear, Obadiah." Yancy tossed his hat on the table and pulled out a chair, massaging the back of his head as he sat. "I'm sorry about the interruption. One of the guards spotted me during the escape. This bump on the noggin has thrown me a bit."

Obadiah set the cup aside and began prodding his charge's hair to examine the damage. Yancy swatted his fingers away. "I'm fine. Don't worry about me."

"I keep saying it. You have a way of finding trouble. What happened?"

"Pearl Girl slugged me." At Obadiah's bewildered expression, he explained in more detail. "Did David ever mention any friends in his regiment when he managed to come home or write Miss Nellie or Mother about them?"

"Not that I can think of." Sparks glinted in the brown eyes. "Just you wait right here, Marse Yancy." Obadiah disappeared down the hallway. He returned a few minutes later with a bundle of letters secured by a lavender ribbon. "These belonged to your mother. She treasured each and every one of them. I didn't have the heart to toss them away after she passed on."

Yancy accepted the bundle. He untied the ribbon and peered at the familiar handwriting. They were letters he and his brother wrote home. Tracing his fingers over the cursive, a sad smile formed on his lips. "Thank you, Obadiah." He separated them into two piles. When he reached the end, he found three missives written in different scripts.

He unfolded the first. Tears shed long ago stained the parchment and smeared the ink. It informed his mother that her husband, Yancy Senior, had been killed in action. The second letter bore the same marks of anguished grief. This time, she learned of her younger son's death at Chickamauga.

Yancy stared at it for a long time before finally examining the last. The parchment was crisp and the ink unblemished. His commanding officer wrote it.

_Dear Mrs. Derringer,_

_We regret to inform you that your son, Yancy Derringer, was shot and captured during battle at Cold Harbor, Virginia, on June 10, 1864. His status is currently unknown. We will keep you informed._

"I mean no disrespect, Marse Yancy," Obadiah said softly, resting a comforting hand on his shoulder, "but Miss Nellie and I thanked the Good Lord for taking your mother when He did. She couldn't have endured the thought of you getting wounded or killed, not after losing your father and Marse David."

Yancy peered up into the gentle face of the man who was as close to him as family. For as long as he could remember, Obadiah had been there, fussing over him and admonishing all the trouble he managed to find. "I know." He inhaled a deep breath; now was not the time to drown in sentimentality.

"Your mother and Miss Nellie used to gather together and read those letters over and over."

"That's what we're going to do. Have a seat, gentlemen." Yancy divided his brother's letters into three groups. He slid one each toward Pahoo and Obadiah. "If you see any names, don't keep quiet."

They sorted through them one by one. Pahoo handed a letter to Yancy. "Jasper Griffin," he read aloud, "now there's a name I haven't heard in a long time. He used to tag along with David and me when we snuck down to the docks as kids. Afraid he can't help us. Jasper was killed midway on in the war."

Ignoring the setback, they kept at it, pausing only to remove the whistling teakettle from the stove. Nearing the bottom of his pile, and no further than they were when they started, a name captured Yancy's attention. "Does Mike Thompson ring any bells, Obadiah?"

"No, not that I…" He snapped his fingers, the memories returning. "Wait, yes, I met him once. Saved me from a mess of trouble over at Bayou Sara. He owns a bar by the docks or at least he used to, oh, about two years ago. A real rough and tumble place. The Bucket of Blood is tame in comparison."

Yancy grinned. "Sounds like the perfect venue for Pahoo and me." He checked his pocket watch. "The _Sultana_ should approach Cass's Crossing within the hour." He arched an eyebrow. "Well, what are you waiting for, Obadiah?"

"Me?"

"Yes, you. You're coming with us."

Obadiah bolted to his feet. "Let me get dressed first. I don't want to join you in the calaboose for wearing indecent attire." He hesitated in the hallway, turning to aim a worried gaze on the younger man. "Isn't it a might dangerous to be boarding the _Sultana_ with the authorities searching for you, Marse Yancy?"

"They should have already searched her down at the levee in the city. If not, we'll deal with it then. Where's your spirit of adventure?"

Obadiah playfully shook his head before disappearing to change. When he returned, they extinguished the lamps and proceeded to Cass's Crossing. Finding a place to sit, Yancy engaged Obadiah in a friendly round of moonlit poker while Pahoo kept sharp watch for the _Sultana_.

When she finally appeared in the distance, they flagged her down and boarded quickly. Captain Tom stormed out of the pilothouse in a fluster once they were charging full steam ahead. Waiting for him on the upper deck, Yancy crossed his arms over his chest. "Why are you running behind schedule?"

"By Jupiter, Yancy, as if you didn't know. A group of soldiers led by a Lieutenant Edgerton, acting under orders from Captain Fry, showed up just as we were about to cast off. They were searching for you. Didn't delay us much, but just as they were leaving, another regiment arrived with some colonel in civilian clothes barking orders."

"Morgan," Yancy chimed in.

"Never mind his name. He had the passengers terrified. I was afraid his men were going to tear the _Sultana_ apart plank by plank. Thankfully, that lieutenant was able to talk some sense into him."

Yancy exchanged concerned glances with Pahoo and Obadiah. "Did any of his boys hitch a ride?"

"No," the captain replied.

"Good. We'll keep out of sight in my cabin until we hit Bayou Sara just in case, but there shouldn't be any more disruptions. Carry on, Captain." Yancy smiled. "Oh, when you get a chance, we could use a good meal. Broke out of the calaboose before I got a chance to eat." He patted the beleaguered pilot on the shoulder, leaving him fuming at the ears.

As he headed to his quarters, he heard Tom muttering under his breath.

"Too many captains aboard this boat."

* * *

Ten hours later, the _Sultana_ moored in Bayou Sara, lowering her landing stage to pick up a consignment bound for St. Louis. Once a bustling business district home to upscale shops rivaling those of New Orleans in quality and quantity of merchandise sold, she was now one of the most notorious towns on the river, a place where lawlessness flourished.

Nine years earlier, a raging fire swept from one end to the other, the engulfing flames burning nearly every building to the ground. Then the war broke out. Bayou Sara never regained her previous glory. Respectable citizens disembarked luxurious cabins for carriages waiting to escort them the safety of St. Francisville, seated on the bluff two miles above. Despite her reputation, Bayou Sara remained the second busiest port on the Mississippi, surpassed only by the Crescent City.

Yancy bid Captain Tom goodbye and joined Pahoo and Obadiah on the dock. The sun's warm rays burned off the strongest whiffs of the musty river odor, a distinctive blend of mud, algae and humidity that settled on the banks of the Mighty Mississippi when night fell.

All around them, roustabouts toiled to load and unload cargo from the dozens of steamboats pulling into the harbor. Sweat and grunts now permeated the air. Wood crates and bales of cotton created a maze on the wharf. Animal handlers drove livestock into paddocks. Sailors made beelines for the countless bars. Beneath the scruffy garments, every man had a weapon in easy reach.

Yancy grasped Obadiah by the elbow and led him to a secluded spot behind a stack of crates. Pahoo maintained a vigilant watch, poised to wield his scattergun at the first sign of danger. "Pahoo and I are going to track down Mike Thompson. We shouldn't be more than an hour or two at the most. Ask around, see if you can locate a vessel sailing for New Orleans about that time and secure us a cabin."

"That shouldn't be too difficult, Marse Yancy. As long as the sun stays up, I feel safe."

"All the same, be careful, Obadiah." Yancy drew his Sharps derringer from his vest pocket. "Take this in the event you do encounter trouble."

"I sure hope I don't have to use it." Obadiah tucked the weapon in his pocket.

Yancy watched him disappear into the crowd, relieved he went relatively unnoticed, and turned to Pahoo. "We have a lot of bars to check. Let's get started." His fancy white suit drew a few curious stares, as did the presence of the Pawnee Indian, but eyes quickly averted when he asked for Mike. Not surprisingly, no one heard of him.

With a sigh, they entered the next tavern on the street. When they finally got lucky and an old bartender directed them to the Drunken Gator, the two friends wove a path toward the northern edge of the river town, sidestepping street brawls and flying objects.

Yancy stopped in front of a lumber warehouse. "This used to be where the Laurel Grove Hotel stood, the heart and soul of the Bayou. It rivaled even the King Louis Hotel."

Pahoo signed a question.

"Yes, David and I used to come up this way when we were younger. Some of the best gambling in Louisiana,"—he grinned—"but don't tell Francine I said that."

The Drunken Gator occupied a large, two-story building to itself. At first glance, it looked more like a manor house than a tavern with its red brick exterior, large windows providing sweeping views of the river and the wrap around covered porch. Wood steps led to the entrance. Only the painted sign featuring a happy blue alligator complete with a mug in its claws revealed the true nature of the establishment.

Yancy gazed at it with curious amusement before climbing the steps. Pahoo pulled him aside at the top to ask a question. He shrugged. "I don't know why it's that color. Never seen a blue gator before."

A flying chair shattered the window to their left, bouncing off the railing with a clatter. "And it's only morning," Yancy quipped. "I wonder what the lunch crowd is like." The door flung open before his fingers brushed the handle. Eyes growing wide at the sight on the other side, Yancy dodged the airborne customer making an exit. The man hit the dirt below with a thud and a grunt.

Two burly, unshaven roustabouts followed on foot. The bigger of the duo halted on the porch. Staring at the newcomer adjusting his clothes, he called to his friend, "Hey, Sully, get a load of this dandy."

Sully emitted a low whistle. "Looks like he's right out of one of them fancy catalogs, Lou."

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, gentlemen." Yancy tipped his hat and proceeded inside when Lou grabbed his elbow, hauling him back out. He struck his aggressor on the forearm with his cane, eliciting a rather unmanly yelp. Sully charged forward, suddenly paling and inching rearward when he met the muzzle of Pahoo's scattergun.

Yancy grinned. "Good day." He watched them retreat down the stairs, mumbling apologies, until they tripped over their dusty friend. The newcomer forgotten, they resumed the earlier quarrel.

Yancy and Pahoo stepped inside the Drunken Gator. Alcohol and tobacco tinged the air, entwining with raucous laughter and gruff voices. A long, polished wood bar extended the length of the wall to their right. Dozens of bottles lined shelves above it. Several patrons called barstools home, hunched over their drinks.

A piano occupied an empty stage to their left. The heavy burgundy curtain behind it remained closed. Pool tables occupied a quieter area tucked toward the rear, beyond the stage. Nearby stairs led to rooms on the second floor.

Regular tables and chairs filled the rest of the open space. About a quarter of them were in use. Roustabouts played cards and flirted with the handful of women brazen enough to handle them.

Yancy began approaching the bartender when a stunning young woman swooped in and blocked his path. Clad in a crimson dress that accentuated her curves as well as the reddish tones in her dark hair, she had skin as smooth as peaches and cream and a bounce in her step. At first glance, she exuded a refined bearing that definitely didn't belong at the Drunken Gator.

"I'll take care of this guest, Rusty," she announced.

The bartender open his mouth to protest when a customer further on down demanded attention. She hooked her arm around Yancy's and escorted him to a secluded corner. "Hello, handsome."

"Hello, Miss?"

"Savannah," she cooed.

"A beautiful name for a beautiful lady."

"Why, aren't you a charmer, Mr.?"

"Derringer, Yancy Derringer."

Sparks ignited in her blue eyes. "The owner of the _Sultana_?"

"The one and the same," he replied, hiding his amusement as her fingers traced along his lapels.

"I've heard of you and your Indian companion, Mr. Derringer. You're practically famous in these parts! It's not every day I am graced with the presence of a distinguished gentleman such as yourself," she cajoled with a lilting Southern accent as her fingers moved to play with the ruffles of his shirt.

Yancy grinned. "The pleasure is all mine. I never expected to meet such delightful company in Bayou Sara." The distinctive sound of a slap drew his attention and he glanced over his shoulder.

A woman dumped a mug of beer on her companion's head and stormed away, leaving the drenched man's tablemates roaring in laughter. He didn't take kind to the ribbing and punches flew. A second chair went airborne, shattering the window adjacent to the broken one.

"Must get expensive," Yancy surmised. "I trust the local glazier does booming business."

"Mm-hmm," she muttered, tracing the embroidery on his vest, "but it doesn't cost Mike a cent. He and Rusty keep sharp watch and add it to their tabs. The same few fellows do most of the smashing."

When the fight settled down, the brawlers opting to mend their differences over fresh mugs, Yancy returned his focus to Savannah. "Would you kindly point out Mike Thompson for me?"

Her lips curled into a pout. "Eager to leave me so soon? Did I say something to offend you?"

Yancy clasped his hands over hers. "I like you, Miss Savannah, and I would like for us to be friends." He held out his palm face up. "So if you would be so kind…"

Scrunching her nose, she smiled coyly. "I'd like for us to be friends, too. Something tells me it's a lot more fun than being your enemy." Savannah reached into the folds of her dress and produced his pocket watch. He cleared his throat. A moment later, her smile growing wider, she returned his derringer pistol.

Yancy tucked the watch in his vest and weapon up his sleeve.

Savannah nodded to the pool match in progress. "Mike is the one about to win, as usual."

"Thank you." He pressed a kiss to the back of her hand.

She batted her eyelashes. "I'll be seeing you again, Mr. Derringer."

"I'll hold you to that," Yancy added playfully as he and Pahoo made their way to the pool tables. At Pahoo's observation, he laughed. "Yes, she is an intriguing girl." Not wanting to disrupt the game, he leaned against the stage to watch the action.

Mike, a husky fellow with wavy hair, a square jaw, broad shoulders and a thick midsection, leaned over the felt and lined up his shot. His opponent, equally robust with unshaven cheeks and a sailor's cap, folded his hands over the tip of his cue stick. Behind him, two more observers wearing similar blue pea coats perched on an empty pool table.

"Eight ball in the corner pocket." The black and white ball rolled smoothly to its destination. Mike straightened to his full height. "That's forty more you owe me now, Joe."

"Bah," Joe huffed. "You cheated me!"

"Now how did I do that?"

"The table ain't level or something. All them balls rolled to one side."

Deep reverberations bounced off the walls as Mike laughed. "If you learned how to play, you wouldn't have to accuse me of cheating."

Growling, Joe snapped the cue stick in two over his knee. "I'll teach you never to laugh at me." He threw both pieces of broken wood at his opponent. Mike dodged them just as Joe charged forward, tackling him to the floor. Joe's two friends eagerly joined the fray.

Yancy jumped into action. Grabbing one of the sailors by the arm, he ducked when his opponent spun around with a fist at the ready, delivering a quick jab to the belly and a punch to the jaw in return.

The man fell against the table, clutching his stomach. After catching his breath, he snatched a cue stick and swung wildly. Yancy deflected the attack with his cane, sending the makeshift weapon clattering to the ground. Desperate, the sailor grabbed for the cane. To his surprise, a section of it came off his in hand, revealing a three-foot steel blade.

Yancy aimed the tip to his chest. "Three against one isn't fair odds." He looked over to where Pahoo pressed a knife against the other sailor's neck and grinned.

Mike heaved Joe to his feet by the collar and pushed him to start walking. "All of you cool off—and that broken stick is going on your tab, Joe."

Collecting the sheath for his hidden sword, Yancy watched the beaten trio shuffle to a table to nurse their bruised egos. Turning back, he found Mike observing him with a wry smile and laugh on his lips.

"Well, I'll be damned. You must be Yancy Derringer."

"Guilty as charged."

"When David wasn't making the guys in our unit jealous with stories about that pretty wife of his, he was telling ribald tales about the trouble the two of you got into." Mike's smile faltered as he laid his cue stick on the felt. "After the war ended, I made my way down to New Orleans to pay my respects to Miss Nellie, but she already left to join her family in Memphis. The caretaker of your plantation—or rather what was left of it—told me you were killed at Cold Harbor. Sure got some hot iron in those fists for a dead man. Haven't seen Benny doubled over in a long time."

Yancy grinned. "Now that's funny. According to your lovely waitress, I'm famous around here."

"Lovely waitress?" Mike repeated, his brow furrowing in confusion. His face grew red enough for steam to spout from his ears. "Savannah! Where is she?"

Yancy pointed to where he left the beautiful pickpocket. She slipped out the entrance, but not before waving and blowing him a kiss.

"She's going to drive me to an early grave. I already chased her out of here twice today. Rusty," he called out, "I ought to fire you." The bartender shrugged and went about his duties. "The old goat has a soft spot for her. Better check your pockets. That girl can pluck feathers off a chicken without it clucking."

"Savannah and I are friends. She wouldn't steal from a friend."

"And I used to doubt David," Mike snorted. "Nice to finally meet you, Yancy." They shook hands. He gestured to Pahoo. "Who's your friend?"

"Pahoo-Ka-Ta-Wah, Wolf Who Stands in Water, Chief of the Skidi Pawnee and my blood brother."

"Kind of far from home, isn't he? And don't tell me he likes French food."

Yancy chuckled. "Actually, he is quite fond of _coq au vin_." He regarded his friend with deep gratitude. "Pahoo once saved my life. In doing so, he went against fate. That makes him responsible for me."

"If there's a shred of truth to even half the stories David told me—and I'm starting to think there is—it must keep him mighty busy."

Pahoo signed. Before Yancy could translate, Mike laughed. "I understood that loud and clear. So, what brings you to the Drunken Gator?"

"Do you have someplace we can talk in private?"

"Sure, follow me."

Yancy's gaze traced to Joe and his companions, who kept their collective eyes on the group at the pool table. "Will they be trouble?"

"Joe and the boys? Nah, they're harmless. We go through this routine every time they come in here. They're not used to having anyone but me putting them in their place." Mike raised his voice, "Ain't that right, Joe? Rusty, give them a round on the house."

Mike limped toward the wall to retrieve the cane hanging from the cue rack. Leaning heavily on it, he proceeded toward a rear door. Yancy and Pahoo exchanged a quick glance and followed him outside. Boxes and crates were stacked up behind the establishment, providing a respite from the boisterous clientele.

"War wound. Got shot at Chickamauga," Mike explained, rubbing his leg as he sat on a barrel marked whiskey. "Your fool brother…" he paused and peered at Yancy from the corner of his eye. "Sure you want to hear this?"

Yancy nodded, not trusting his voice.

"The fighting with Rosecrans' troops stretched into a second day. Seemed like weeks when men drop like flies next to you. They say Chickamauga is the Cherokee word for river of death and I believe it." Mike stared off into the distance, his eyes vacant. "We were maneuvering down the creek to attack a gap in the Union line when it felt like fire ripped through my thigh. David caught me, threw me over his shoulder and made for the medics. My head was woozy and I vaguely registered falling… hitting the ground, a heavy weight on top of me."

Yancy swallowed hard, sensing where this was leading.

Mike exhaled a deep breath and ran his hands over his face. "Woke up in a tent, my leg aching something awful. First thing I did was make sure it was still there." This time, his laugh was hollow. "The docs were too eager with those bone saws and I heard guys talking about phantom pains from missing limbs. Thanked God for letting me keep it." He massaged his thigh some more.

"I was transferred to a hospital a few days later. Kept wondering why none of the guys came to see me, especially David, until one of 'em stopped by with his arm in a sling. Told me what happened and suddenly it was clear as day. Hell," he whispered, voice shaking, "I wish I didn't remember. A Yankee sniper hit David while he carried me to safety. That's why we fell. Heard the sniper didn't live much longer, though it's not much consolation."

The eerie silence that settled between them shattered when Mike slammed his fist into the crate nearest him. "Damn it, he had a wife, a family. He should have left me there."

Yancy was quiet for a long time. Finally, with a faint smile, he said, "David was a Derringer through and through. It wasn't in his nature to leave a friend behind."

Mike nodded in appreciation. "You never did answer what brought you here."

"David," Yancy replied. At the raised eyebrows, he explained.

"So, you think this Morgan was one of your brother's Union contacts?"

"Had a long boat ride to ponder all the angles and it's the only one that makes sense. Morgan is hiding something, has reason to believe I know what it is and is willing to kill to protect it."

"Not sure how I can help you, Yancy. David said you worked intelligence, too, so you know we wore that close to the vest. If their identities leaked out, no sympathizers would confide in us."

Yancy nodded. "But it was standard procedure to confide in a superior officer at headquarters, in case we ran out luck in the field."

"We reported to Colonel Abernathy." Mike heaved a sigh. "That's not going to help you much, either. Word is he died of pneumonia last month at his plantation in Georgia."

Yancy slumped onto a crate, drumming his cane against the wood slats. Pahoo signaled he heard a noise and went to investigate.

"You said this Morgan is well connected?" Mike asked.

"Very."

"It's not much to go on, but I'm convinced David had a Union mole high up in the ranks. We raided a supply train outside Philadelphia—even had the blue coats helping to unload the cargo—based on information David obtained. Not a single shot fired or even a hint of suspicion. Two weeks later, we intercepted a batch of greenbacks on route to Boston, swapping out counterfeit notes in their place. It was like stealing candy from a baby. You don't pull off feats like that without a little inside assistance."

"This all took place around Philadelphia? Any other daring escapades?"

A feminine shriek cut Mike's reply short. Pahoo reappeared with a struggling Savannah in his arms. "Put me down," she cried, kicking as wildly as she could. Yancy made a quick sign and Pahoo released her. Savannah glared at the Pawnee as she straightened her dress and raised her chin. "That is no way to treat a lady."

"It's not nice to eavesdrop on friends," Yancy noted.

"It's not my fault y'all are talking near where I was standing," she replied.

Mike snorted. "Told you she's digging me an early grave."

Savannah crinkled her nose. Before she could offer a sharp retort, Yancy intervened. "What were you doing hiding back there?"

"Promised to see you again. I want to help you kill that Yankee."

"The war is over, Savannah," Yancy admonished. "An attitude like that will only get you in trouble."

She nibbled her lower lip as unshed tears glistened in her eyes. "Yankees murdered my family. My daddy and my brothers were killed fighting and my mama and sister died when those dirty dogs shelled Vicksburg."

"I'm sorry," Yancy said softly, "but revenge won't bring them back."

"You're going to kill this Morgan fellow."

"I never said anything about killing him."

Savannah pressed her lips together in confusion. Her shoulders slumping, she let out a small harrumph and sat beside Yancy. Mike snickered when she latched onto his arm. "Do you know how old she is?"

"That's none of your business," she snapped.

The question certainly got Yancy's attention. "My daddy taught me it's impolite to inquire of a woman's age, but I'll ask anyway. How old are you?"

"Eighteen."

Yancy arched an eyebrow.

"Next month," she reluctantly added. "All right, two months."

Mike laughed. "Yancy, you're old enough to be her–"

"Older brother," Yancy interjected.

"Nice recovery," Mike quipped.

Savannah smiled, never letting go of Yancy's arm. "Friendship knows no age."

"She has a point," Yancy said. Pahoo indicated the sun, reminding his friend of the time. "I need to return to New Orleans before Morgan sets sail tomorrow afternoon. Will you tag along, Mike, and fill me in on some more of your Philadelphia adventures?"

"You don't need to ask. It's the least I can do for David. I just need a few minutes to go over tonight's business with Rusty."

Now it was Yancy's turn to nod in appreciation. "Thank you."

"What about me?" Savannah asked, bouncing in anticipation. "Can I come, too?"

"The more the merrier."

"Yancy," Mike warned.

"If you haven't noticed, Miss Savannah is a determined woman who is accustomed to getting what she wants. If I say no, she's liable to travel to New Orleans on her own and surface at an inconvenient moment. I'd rather know exactly where she is and what she's up to."

"Well, when you put it that way, I guess we don't have a choice," Mike grumbled. "Doesn't mean I have to like it." Despite his gruff demeanor, he gazed at Savannah with a flicker of compassion. Yancy suspected this was the first he heard of her childhood and that she would now have another old goat forming a soft spot for her.

Before Mike vanished behind the door, Yancy caught Pahoo's question and stopped him. "Pahoo is curious if there is any significance to the blue gator on your sign. In many Indian cultures, the color of an animal has an underlying meaning."

Mike scratched his head. "Wish I could say it was profound, but blue was the only color paint I had."

Rising to his feet, Yancy laughed, offered his arm to Savannah and escorted her to the front of the Drunken Gator. Mike joined them after a brief spell and they made their way to the dock. If the riverboat owner and Pawnee drew attention before, it was nothing like the gawks they drew with the sashaying Savannah at Yancy's side.

They didn't find Obadiah; Obadiah found them. Mike exchanged warm greetings with the man he once saved years ago. "Hope you're keeping out of trouble this time."

Obadiah winked. "If I find any, it's because I learned from Marse Yancy."

Yancy grinned. "Did you arrange our passage home?"

"I secured a cabin on the _Southern Belle II_. Miss Tappworth left standing orders with her captain to grant you passage anytime. If anyone asks, he hasn't seen you." Obadiah glanced at Savannah. "I didn't know we'd have guests. The quarters might get cramped."

"I don't mind," Savannah cooed. "The cozier the better."

The call came out to begin boarding the _Southern Belle II_ and Yancy escorted the lady toward the gangway. Mike held the others back. "Is he always like this?"

Obadiah laughed when Pahoo finished signing. "Old Pahoo is right. Better get used to it."

Grinning, Mike shook his head. "I owe David an apology."


	3. Chapter 3

**My Brother's Honor**

**Chapter 3  
"A Kidnapping—or Two or Three"**

Darkness enveloped the Mighty Mississippi as the _Southern Belle II_ approached New Orleans. A small exchange of money persuaded the captain to make an unscheduled stop eight miles upriver at Cass's Crossing without sounding the whistle.

The group proceeded to the manor house on foot, keeping to a measured pace for Mike's sake. Pahoo set out ahead to scout the area for soldiers. He rejoined them at a grove of trees out front and gave the all clear.

Mike slumped into the nearest chair as soon as they entered the foyer while Obadiah and Pahoo started the kerosene lamps. Massaging his thigh, he gazed at the opulent surroundings and emitted a low whistle. "Last time I was here, this place was a burned out heap of rubble. If I hadn't seen it before, I'd never believe Farragut shelled it. How did you manage to pull this off?"

"I didn't," Yancy replied. "My widow tended to the details."

"Your widow? Huh?"

Yancy laughed as he led an astonished Savannah to a seat next to Mike. "I'll explain later. Make yourself at home." He silently asked Pahoo to keep watch on the lady with the sticky fingers before taking the stairs two at a time. Once in his bedroom, he changed into a dark blue suit that better blended in with the shadows.

"What now, Marse Yancy?" Obadiah asked when he returned.

"I intend to have a few words with my would-be assassin. It's time for us to part company." Yancy drew his derringer on Obadiah, who smiled shrewdly. "Captain Fry's men shouldn't disturb you again, but I can't guarantee the same for Morgan. His soldiers will be crawling all over the levee. If they learn the _Southern Belle_ stopped at my landing, I want you to honestly tell them I held you at gunpoint."

The older man raised his hands, his brown eyes twinkling. "Now you see why I have a little more gray than last time we met, Mr. Thompson. Good luck, Marse Yancy."

"Thank you, Obadiah." Winking, Yancy kept the pistol aimed on his devoted family friend while the others departed the house for the stables. Tucking the Sharps in his vest, he caught up with them.

Pahoo went to work hitching up a buckboard. Yancy helped Savannah climb on while Mike took the reins. "You're familiar with the King Louis Hotel?"

"It's been a while, but I'll find it," Mike replied.

"Good. Park around the corner and sit tight. Savannah, you casually stroll the length of the street. Behave yourself. Getting arrested won't benefit either of us. Pahoo and I will find you. Mike, she'll alert you once we capture our target."

"How can you be so sure this fellow will be at the hotel?" Savannah asked.

"It was the first place he ran after failing to shoot me. He'll show up there sooner or later." Yancy regarded them both somberly. "Remember, if anything goes wrong, you two make like smoke and disappear. Morgan is out for my scalp. It's best you aren't caught with me."

"If the war taught me one thing," Mike said, obviously not liking it, "it's how to follow orders."

Savannah frowned, but relented under his intense stare. "I promise."

Once their new friends set off, Yancy and Pahoo readied their horses. They kept to secluded roads, guided by the soft light of the moon, until they reached the Garden District where they swapped their mounts for the safety of dark alcoves and back alleyways. Before long, they found refuge in the French Quarter behind some old crates stacked in a nook opposite the hotel.

Savannah remained true to her word, walking slowly from one end of the block to the other, refraining from encounters with unsuspecting marks. She crossed the street and began her way back when Yancy darted out, clasped a hand over her mouth and pulled her in.

She grinned. "You know how to treat a girl so she feels special."

An hour ticked by and she leaned against the wall with a heavy sigh, twirling the reticule at her wrist. "I thought it would be more exciting than this. How do you know he isn't tucked all cozy in his bed?"

"I don't, but we need to be certain."

Pahoo caught Yancy's attention and pointed to two men approaching the hotel; the smaller of the duo was clean-shaven with a wiry build. They stopped next to the decorative wrought iron railing that bordered the sidewalk leading to the entrance.

"Are you sure that's him?"

Pahoo moved his hand in one quick motion.

"He shaved the beard. I think he's trying to hide from us." Yancy grinned and gestured for Savannah to come closer. "The taller man is Isaac Morgan. His shorter friend is about to become our friend. Find out his room number."

"That should be simple enough." She smoothed her dress and emerged from behind the crates when Yancy grasped her wrist, halting her progress. "Now what?"

The mystery man didn't follow Morgan inside. Instead, he turned and retraced his steps. "It seems he's going to make this easy for us. Lure him over here."

"My pleasure, Mr. Derringer."

With flawless timing, Savannah crossed the street, narrowly missing a carriage, and bumped into her target. Ever the gentleman, he reached out to steady her. She pressed her hands to her chest all flustered by the near death encounter. As he calmed her nerves, they struck up a conversation and he offered the lovely lady his elbow.

Yancy laughed softly as she guided him right into the den of the lion. Grabbing his prey by the arm, he dragged him into the nook and smiled widely. "Remember me?"

Color drained from the angular face, but before he could utter a sound, Pahoo conked him on the head with the barrel of the scattergun. Savannah hurried to fetch Mike. When the buckboard pulled around the corner, Yancy placed the unconscious assassin in the rear and covered him with a blanket.

No sooner did the horses start moving than a trio of soldiers exited the hotel. Yancy and Pahoo retreated to the shadows, pressing their bodies against the wall until the threat subsided. Proceeding to the levee, they met Mike and Savannah outside Devers Warehouse.

Mike scanned the area as he climbed down, Pahoo taking his place at the reins. "This isn't such a good idea, Yancy. You said it yourself that this place is crawling with soldiers."

"After spending the past twenty-four hours combing the levee without a trace of me, they won't be looking too hard." Yancy swung the unconscious fellow over his shoulder while Mike and Savannah gathered the supplies. They entered the warehouse while Pahoo made the horses and buckboard disappear.

Once they had the lanterns lit, Mike pushed a chair against a support beam. Yancy unloaded his captive in the seat and secured his hands and feet with rope. "Now, let's see who he is." Yancy held his palm out to Savannah.

"Why, you are a sharp one, Mr. Derringer." She tossed him the wallet.

Yancy rummaged through the contents. Extracting a business card, he read it aloud. "Phillip Evans, personal secretary to Lieutenant Colonel Isaac Morgan, retired." He tossed the wallet back to Savannah.

She peered at it in disbelief. "You're actually going to let me keep it?"

"Mr. Evans attempted to kill me. I'm not too concerned about his wallet."

Mike folded his arms over his chest and snorted.

Pahoo rejoined them just as Evans stirred awake. He raised his head and surveyed his surroundings through bleary eyes. "Derringer!"

"I'm flattered you remember me." Yancy pushed a second chair closer so it was only a few feet from Evans. He straddled the seat, resting his forearms on the back. "Why does Morgan want me dead?"

Evans swallowed hard, remaining silent.

"I was hoping we could do this friendly way. But if you would rather not…" Yancy motioned for Pahoo to come forward. The flames from the lanterns danced in the whites of the Pawnee's fierce eyes. Evans paled. "This is Pahoo-Ka-Ta-Wah. He is quite skilled in convincing a man to talk."

With a flourish, Pahoo drew the knife from the sheath at his shoulder.

"You wouldn't," Evans gasped.

"Savannah, this is no place for a lady." Yancy stood and offered to escort her to a different part of the warehouse. "Pahoo, don't get too carried away. We need his tongue intact so he can speak."

"Uh, Yancy," Mike said, "I think I'll go with you. I had my fill of blood during the war."

Pahoo advanced on Evans, who squirmed against his binds. "Derringer, get back here! Derringer!"

"Now I can't help you unless you help me."

"I'll tell you everything. Just get this savage away from me!"

Hiding a sly grin, Yancy exchanged a quick sign with Pahoo. As the Pawnee returned the knife to its sheath, he retook his place in the chair and listened to Evans' story. When the man finished, Yancy gestured for the others to join him in a quiet corner, out of their captive's earshot.

"Where do we go from here?" Mike asked.

"I think it's time to get law on our side," Yancy replied.

Savannah stiffened. "The law? Uh, the law and I haven't always gotten along."

"You'll be fine. Mike, keep an eye on our guest." Yancy explained what he wanted Pahoo to do in sign language and the two men set off on their respective missions.

* * *

A few blocks over from the Cabildo, the two-story townhouse stood quiet in the night air. No lights shone from the windows and only a few tipsy revelers inhabited the street. Using his dagger, Yancy disengaged the lock on the back door with practiced ease. Stepping into the dim kitchen, he realized with a hint of amusement that this was his first visit to the abode.

Moonlight filtered in through partially drawn curtains, providing enough light for him to observe his surroundings. The kitchen opened up into a small parlor off to his left. The furniture was modest and chosen for comfort rather than style. Other than a few books on the coffee table, the room was void of knickknacks.

It was certainly the home of a bachelor.

In the foyer, Yancy climbed the narrow staircase to the upper floor. He peered into the first room and discovered it empty, sans a desk and bookcase. At the end of the hallway, he pushed the partially closed door open and smiled.

The slumbering figure rolled over in bed. Yancy crept toward the nightstand and lit the lantern. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, he pulled the Sharps from his vest. The sleeping figure rolled over again. Grinning, Yancy bounced on the edge until the man startled awake.

"Good evening, Captain Fry."

"Mr. Derringer." Amos Fry rubbed his eyes. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm kidnapping you."

"Kidnapping?"

"Seems there's been a whole rash of abductions this evening. It's just not safe around here anymore." Yancy kept the pistol aimed on his victim and clicked his tongue in lighthearted dismay. "I doubt Mr. Morgan would be pleased to find the head of the Secret Service snoozing while a dangerous criminal is loose on the streets of New Orleans."

One corner of Fry's mouth curled upward. "I have to sleep sometime. He's had me scouring the city high and low for you since your escape."

"I'm sorry to have caused you so much trouble, Captain, but you'll have to come with me." Yancy stood and motioned to the door. "I hope I don't have to remind you not to try anything foolish."

"Do you mind if I get dressed first?"

"Not at all. Where do you keep your service revolver?"

Fry pointed the nightstand. Yancy retrieved the weapon from the drawer and allowed the good captain some privacy. When Fry met him downstairs, he inquired, "May I ask why I'm being kidnapped?"

"You'll learn soon enough."

* * *

Upon returning to the warehouse, Yancy introduced Captain Fry to Mike. Savannah scurried into the shadows behind some cotton bales, out of sight from the law, but he knew she lurked close enough to hear everything. Fry raised an eyebrow when he spied the prisoner tied to the chair, but said nothing.

A commotion sounded from behind them.

John Colton shrugged free of Pahoo's grasp. "Yancy, what the devil is going on? Have you and Pahoo taken leave of your senses?" The administrator had the look of a man who just rolled out of bed with his tousled red hair and the jacket worn over the improperly buttoned shirt, his usual vest and necktie absent. "I was sound asleep in my quarters when a noise woke me up—"

"Pahoo promised to make a little noise this time."

Colton's face flushed pink with fury. "Pahoo put a knife to my throat and dragged me out from under the covers. I didn't think he was going to let me change out of my nightclothes."

"It was a kidnapping, Mr. Administrator."

"Yancy—"

"I didn't have much choice. How would it look for the Administrator of New Orleans and the head of his Secret Service to willingly meet with an escaped prisoner wanted on charges attempted murder?"

Colton exhaled a long breath, his temper waning. He regarded the Pawnee Indian carefully. "I'd still like to know how Pahoo managed to break into the Cabildo without drawing attention."

Yancy deflected the question by quickly introducing him to Mike, who pulled him aside and whispered incredulously. "You kidnapped the city administrator and a Secret Service agent?"

"Mm-hmm," Yancy replied.

After measuring his messy attire against Fry's tidy appearance—glaring at his underground agent in the process—Colton's gaze traced to the prisoner. "That's Phillip Evans, Morgan's secretary. Yancy…"

Evans watched the gathering of his captors on the far end of the warehouse in rapt attention, squirming in the chair as all eyes turned on him.

"Mr. Evans has been most cooperative." Yancy crossed the open space with the others not far behind. "Tell Mr. Colton and Captain Fry what you told me."

Staring between the two officials, Evans' breathing intensified. "That wasn't part of the deal, Derringer. I'm not going down for nearly killing you."

Pahoo drew his knife, encouraging Evans to have a change of heart. "All right," he exclaimed when the blade touched the flesh of his neck, "but you've got to keep that savage away from me!" Evans breathed in relief when Pahoo retreated to stand next to Yancy. "It started the night after Colonel Morgan and I arrived in New Orleans. We were finishing dinner at the Sazerac and going over his schedule when a customer came in and yelled 'Yancy, Yancy Derringer' above the din."

"Paul Withers, an old friend I hadn't seen in years," Yancy offered at Colton's questioning glance.

"From that point on, the colonel focused his attention on the gathering a few tables away. He barely acknowledged a word I said as he strained to hear their conversation."

Colton raised an eyebrow. "Pahoo didn't notice this?"

"He was outside," Yancy explained. "You see, Pahoo and Miss James, the young lady I was with, have had a few misunderstandings in the past. I aimed for a different mood… one more romantic."

Colton rolled his eyes. "Continue, Mr. Evans."

"This visitor—Withers?—joined his own party and Derringer got cozy with his date. Morgan left. I paid the bill and caught up with him outside. He pulled me aside on the way back to the hotel and ordered me to find out everything I could on Derringer."

"Did you?" Colton inquired.

Evans nodded. "I spent the next couple of days asking around—everyone seemed to know him—and compiled a dossier, which I presented to the colonel."

Fry stepped forward. "What exactly was in this dossier?"

"A preliminary profile: Former Confederate captain, has a family plantation called Waverly, owns a riverboat named the _Sultana_, likes to gamble and has an Indian bodyguard." Evans shifted uncomfortably at those last words. "Known to frequent Madame Francine's club, the Charter House, the Sazerac and the, uh, calaboose on occasion. Derringer is popular with the young ladies, not so popular with their fathers."

Yancy chuckled, earning a glare from Colton. The administrator placed his hands on his hips. "That warranted an assassination attempt?"

"Look, I didn't plan to kill him. He seemed harmless enough. I couldn't figure out why Colonel Morgan fixated on him until the following evening. He secured a guest card to Madame Francine's during an earlier luncheon."

"What happened then?" Fry inquired.

"We arrived by carriage. Before stepping down, he pulled me close and divulged that he executed Derringer's brother for treason during the war. He went on to say Derringer is volatile—if he finds out, he'll shoot first and ask questions later. The colonel ordered me to keep watch outside where I wouldn't draw attention in the event Derringer was inside and went off the hook."

"And you went along with this?" Colton asked incredulously.

"Morgan's family has considerable clout. He's being primed for a lofty political career. He also goes through staff faster than women latch onto new fashion trends. If I cross him, I'll never work in Washington again."

"In other words," Colton said, "your career is worth more than a man's life."

"I didn't say that! I tried to convince Morgan to go somewhere else, to avoid a potential altercation, but he refused. He said 'no two-bit Rebel is going to dictate where I can and cannot go.'"

Colton stared aghast at Evans. "Did you ever consider that Morgan may have arranged this encounter in order to provoke Mr. Derringer?"

"No, what reason would he have?" Beads of sweat spilled down Evans' forehead. "I told you before; I didn't plan to kill him. Derringer went ballistic. What else was I supposed to do? I was defending my employer—a man appointed by the President of the United States."

The administrator ignored the veiled threat and fired off a series of questions as if he were interrogating a witness on the stand. "Did you hear what they argued about?"

"No, just some raised voices—"

"Was Morgan armed?"

"Yes, he always carries a revolver."

"Did he draw?"

"I—I don't know. He was on the floor. I couldn't see him."

"So you had no idea what you were witnessing, yet you were going to shoot Mr. Derringer? This based entirely on the hearsay of one individual. Mr. Derringer could very well have drawn his pistol in self-defense for all you knew."

"I guess…"

"Why did you run?"

Evans looked up. "I had Derringer in my sight. Next thing I know, I'm on the ground with a headache and a crowd gathering above me. I scrambled to my feet, peeked in the window, saw Morgan standing over the body and I… I don't know. I must have panicked."

"For a man who compiled my dossier, he was foolish to ignore Pahoo," Yancy observed. "At least I wasn't the only one to suffer a headache that night."

Colton brushed off the quip and loomed over Evans. "I object to citizens taking the law into their own hands. New Orleans will not stand for vigilantism."

The new admission about Morgan's political ambitions piqued Yancy's curiosity. Evans omitted that tidbit earlier. He placed a hand on Colton's shoulder to urge him back. Placing his foot on the chair, he casually leaned forward with his arm on his knee. "Morgan claims to have executed my brother. Where did this alleged execution take place?"

"I don't know, Derringer. Honest. I held an administrative position during the war. I was never out of New York and first met Morgan two years ago. It must have happened in Philadelphia. That's where he served the duration of the conflict."

Yancy exchanged a quick glance with Mike, whose ears also perked up at this revelation. "You work for the man, planning his schedule, coordinating his travel, booking events—you probably write up nice little biographies about the war hero for local newspapers like the one I read in the _Crescent_—but you don't know anything about his service?"

"I—I'm familiar with his accomplishments, if that's what you mean," Evans replied.

Yancy rested his other arm atop his knee. "Did he oversee many executions?"

"He took part in several court-martials, if that's what you're asking," Evans said hesitantly, as if his answer would provoke his captor. "I didn't pay much attention to that aspect of his career. This country has had its fill of death; bragging about executions won't get him elected into office."

Yancy motioned for Mike to join him at the far end of the warehouse. "When you and David pulled off the raid on the supply train, he must have presented orders."

Mike nodded.

"Forged?"

"I don't think so, Yancy," Mike replied. "Once David got the tip, we had to act fast. We hadn't been in Philadelphia long enough to get acquainted with any forgers. Hey," his expression lit up, "he must have gotten them from the high ranking mole."

"Did you get a look at them?"

"No, just a glimpse. If I saw the name, I don't recollect it."

"What happened to those papers? The guard would return them as a matter of procedure."

"Let me think for a minute, it was over five years ago…" Mike pressed a fist to his lips. "We were transporting the supplies south to our guys to smuggle across the line. Made camp just over the Delaware River… where he tossed them into the fire. I remember it clearly now. That's why he wants you dead?"

"Morgan is too tenacious. He's worried I have something that can sink him. If those orders survived among David's personal effects, it stands to reason they were shipped to Waverly. It's the one kink in his armor. Morgan can't risk having them surface when he runs for office, so he decided to flush me out before it comes to that."

Colton and Fry joined them.

"Yancy, I'll offer Evans immunity in exchange for his testimony. Between that and the statements from witnesses inside and outside of Francine's club, I can mount a strong case against Morgan. His defense lawyers may argue we coerced Evans,"—Colton grinned as he peered at Pahoo—"but I'll make the charges stick. You have my word."

"I don't doubt your skill in the courtroom, Mr. Colton," Yancy said, "you saved my neck once. For that, I am forever grateful."

"But?" Colton prodded.

"But you can only prove Morgan planned to commit murder, not that he's a traitor."

"Yancy, don't make this personal—"

"Morgan made it personal."

"I realize Confederate service records are in disarray and many were destroyed, but the casualty list from Chickamauga will prove Morgan lied about your brother. David's honor and bravery are intact. Yancy,"—Colton grasped his arm—"It's more important that we make sure he doesn't board that ship."

Yancy took several steps forward and addressed Evans. "What model firearm does Morgan carry?"

"Um, a Remington Army revolver," Evans replied, "Newer model, forty-four caliber, eight inch barrel."

"Yancy," Colton cautioned.

"I realize this is a lot to ask of you, Mr. Administrator, but don't arrest Morgan just yet. Escort Evans to a private location and keep him there." Sensing the upcoming protest, Yancy quickly quelled it, "Have Captain Fry position his men on the levee. Don't let Morgan get aboard."

Colton regarded him carefully. "And if I refuse?"

Yancy signed to Pahoo, who aimed his scattergun in their direction. Drawing his Sharps to keep up the pretense for Fry and Mike, he smiled. "I'll do it without your support."

"You have to promise me you won't kill him." At the nod, Colton sighed. "Very well, but when Evans goes missing, Morgan will be even more on edge than he is now. As long as he remains free, I'm obligated to supply the manpower he requests to ensure his safety."

"I'm touched by your concern, Mr. Colton."

Fry took this opportunity to interrupt. "If I'm following this correctly, Mr. Derringer, just how do you plan to get Colonel Morgan to confess?"

"That's what I'd like to know, too," Mike quipped.

"I'm going to do what every good poker player does." Yancy grinned. "Bluff."


	4. Chapter 4

**My Brother's Honor**

**Chapter 4  
"Showdown"**

Circumventing the uniforms patrolling Bourbon Street, Yancy and Savannah made their way to Francine's club. He found the French doors of the rear parlor unlocked. Slipping inside, he clasped Savannah on the shoulders and guided her to the middle of the room. "Don't move."

Yancy carefully peered out the door leading to the main parlor. Francine stood at a table across the way, her back facing him, inspecting cards for signs of wear or tampering. Judging by her rigid posture and the way she slapped them down, she didn't have a restful night.

"Good morning."

Francine spun on her heels, tossing the cards on the table as she did. "Yancy, what are you doing here? Half a dozen soldiers, led by one of Morgan's boys, left only moments ago."

"So I noticed on my way in."

She frowned. "This is the third time they've searched my place since you escaped the calaboose. I barely managed a wink of sleep. Morgan is convinced you'll show up here sooner or later."

"He was right. I'm in need of Lillie Mae's talents," he said, referring to her chambermaid disguise.

Francine pushed him toward the rear parlor, out of sight from the front windows. "Are you aware he's issued a bounty on your head?"

This piqued his curiosity. "Dead or alive?"

"Preferably dead." Her eyes landed on Savannah as she closed the door. "What have I told you about bringing women into my club?"

"She's not a woman."

"Hey," Savannah cried.

"She's a friend." Yancy took Savannah by the elbow and guided her into the middle of the room, batting her fingers away from his lapels as he did. This little detail did not go unnoticed to Francine.

"You brought a pickpocket here? I swear, if she's related to Jody—"

"She isn't." Yancy regarded her with an arched eyebrow. "Are you related to Jody Barker?"

"Never heard of him," Savannah replied.

"See? No relation. Francine, this is Miss Savannah from Bayou Sara. Savannah, this is Madame Francine, the owner of this fine club. Now that we're all friends, let's get down to business, shall we? I'm stretched for time."

"Better time than your neck." Francine's demeanor softened. "What's the grand plan?"

"Do you have a newer model Remington Army revolver in your arsenal?" Yancy asked.

"Forty-four caliber with an eight inch barrel?" Francine nodded. "Mm-hmm."

Yancy offered his most charming smile. "May I borrow it?"

Francine no sooner left to retrieve the firearm when Pahoo herded Jody Barker through the French doors at knifepoint. "Hello, Jody," Yancy greeted.

"H–Hello, Yancy. Uh, you wanted to see me?"

Yancy gave Pahoo the signal to release his captive, who moved closer to Savannah. "Jody, in theory, if you can pick a man's pocket without him realizing it, it shouldn't be too difficult to put something back, correct?"

"No, I suppose not." Jody removed his bowler hat, his brow crinkling in confusion. "You're not making much sense, Yance. Why would I want to return anything?"

"There's a man named Isaac Morgan—"

"Yeah, I know him. He's turning this city inside out looking for you. Even put a price on your head. His men are roughing up decent citizens everywhere from the Bucket of Blood to the Blackjack Club."

"Morgan packs a Remington Army revolver in a custom shoulder holster on his left side. Francine is getting me one just like it. City leaders are hosting a breakfast at a café on Royal Street for him as we speak. When it's over, he's going to return to his hotel. I need you to switch the revolvers before he gets there."

"Why can't I do it?" Savannah asked. "I'm just as good as him." She produced a wallet and smiled.

"Hey," Jody exclaimed, reaching for it as she darted away. Not to be outdone, he held up a bracelet.

"You thief," Savannah cried, glancing at her bare wrist.

Yancy seized the pilfered items and returned them to their rightful owners. "Play nicely, children." Jody counted his money while Savannah secured the latch. "You may be good, Savannah, but you'll attract the wrong type of attention in that dress." He addressed Jody. "Can you pull it off?"

"No problem, Yance."

"Morgan will be accompanied by two uniformed bodyguards."

Jody momentarily stiffened, but his expression relaxed into one of confidence. "I like a challenge."

Francine returned, her eyes widening out of irritation. "Yancy Derringer, I am not running a meeting place for the sneak thieves of Louisiana!"

"Calm down, Francine. Jody is a pivotal part of the plan."

The pickpocket puffed out his chest. "Thank you, Yancy."

Francine raised a curious eyebrow when Pahoo handed Yancy a small box of ammunition and the gambler began loading the pistol. "Those are blank cartridges."

"Exactly," Yancy replied. He finished and passed it to Jody. "Once you make the switch, follow Morgan to the King Louis Hotel. Francine will be on the presidential suite balcony disguised as a maid. Give her a thumbs up if you're successful, thumbs down if you're not. Got it?"

Jody nodded. "Switcheroo, King Louis Hotel, thumbs up yes, thumbs down no. Got it."

"Then alert Mr. Colton and Captain Fry. They'll be at the Sazerac."

Jody gulped. "Do I have to? They aren't too fond of me."

"You'll be fine. Just stay out of their pockets." Yancy pulled a few greenbacks from his wallet, something that would usually elicit a beaming smile from the other man. "For you services."

"Don't insult me, Yancy." Jody pressed his hat to his chest. "I heard what this Morgan fellow said about your brother. This one's on the house."

"Thank you. Pahoo, make sure Mr. Barker gets a few blocks from here without being seen by the little boys in blue." Pahoo peered out the door and motioned for Jody to follow.

When they were gone, Francine's gaze aimed on her favorite troublemaker. "Do you mind letting me in on the finer details?"

"All in due time. Can Lillie Mae get to the rear storeroom of the King Louis without drawing attention from our devoted admirers outside? A friend of mine, Mike Thompson, will be waiting there. I'll meet you soon."

"Don't worry about Lillie Mae." She smiled and gave his arm a squeeze. "Be careful, Yancy."

He leaned down to kiss her. "Always," he said, pulling away.

When Francine departed, Savannah bounced forward, hands clasped behind her waist. "So, what's my role? I do get a part, don't I?"

"We don't steal from friends." Yancy reached behind her and recovered the trinket she pilfered. "The King Louis Hotel doesn't have a back way in; everyone must pass the desk clerk. You are going to provide a distraction so Pahoo and I can sneak in unobserved."

Her eyes glittered. "Do you mind if I, uh, earn a little profit from this endeavor?"

If the wealthy clientele that frequented the hotel was foolish enough to fall for the lovely lady's charms, they deserved to have their wallets pinched. It might even teach them a good lesson. "Be my guest."

Savannah clapped excitedly. "I knew I'd like being your friend."

* * *

Yancy waited out of sight behind the King Louis hotel for Pahoo. They silently brought each other up to date. With Jody primed to make the switch and Savannah in the lobby, Yancy climbed one of the brick pillars anchoring the wrought iron fence surrounding the courtyard to a second floor balcony. He peered through the double French doors to ensure the room was empty and signaled Pahoo to follow.

Once inside, they listened at the solid door for movement in the hallway. Yancy peeked out to see a maid's cart at the far end. He gestured for Pahoo to keep close and they dashed toward the stairs. Crouching low near the steps midway down, he surveyed the lobby through the balustrade.

Rising from the loveseat just inside the entrance after checking the borrowed watch, Savannah had the undivided attention of every man and the jealousy of every woman as she sashayed to the front desk at their right. The clerk leaned forward on both elbows, a smile on his lips and a dreamy look in his eyes. As they chatted, her gaze traced to the staircase and she nodded imperceptibly.

After thanking the clerk, Savannah strolled toward the dining room directly across from the desk and tripped. Gentlemen raced to catch her. She devoured the attention as their wives dragged them away.

Seizing the opening, Yancy and Pahoo leaped over the banister, landing softly, and darted to the room at the end of the hall. "I'm glad to see you made it without trouble, Francine."

"Lillie Mae, sir," she corrected in an exaggerated accent, smoothing the apron and adjusting the wig.

Yancy chuckled and greeted Mike, who perched on a box next to shelves brimming with linens and towels. The other end of the storage room contained a small stove, serving carts and cabinets housing silver service for guests who requested tea and coffee in their quarters.

"The desk clerk is a sociable fellow, very eager to boast about his prestigious guest. Evans was on the level with us last night—or should I say this morning?" Mike failed to stifle a yawn. "Morgan is staying in the presidential suite and has the entire southeast wing reserved for his private use. One guard is posted at the top of the stairs; bank left and the hallway opens into a small foyer where you'll find two more of his boys."

"Only three? How disappointing," Yancy quipped.

"Even odds," Mike replied. "You've given me quite a workout. As much as I'd like to be there when you take him down, there's no way I'm getting up three flights with this bum leg."

"Then don't take the stairs." At Mike's perplexed look, Yancy rolled a serving cart in front of him and located a matching tablecloth while Pahoo slid open a wall panel to reveal an oversized dumbwaiter. "Your chariot awaits."

Mike glanced between the cart and the dumbwaiter. "You don't expect me to ride up on that, do you? It will never support my weight."

"This is nearly identical to one in Natchez that provided me a quick escape," Yancy replied.

"There's an angry father with a long memory in Natchez," Francine added slyly.

"Now that I can believe." Mike heaved a sigh. He moved toward the small elevator and glanced up the shaft. After checking the sturdiness of the pulley system, he shrugged. "I've gone this far, why not? Just don't drop me."

Yancy detailed the plan while Mike squeezed his robust frame onto the cart's lower shelf. A few grunts and mumbled curses later, followed by apologies for Francine's ears, they were ready. Yancy pressed a kiss to her cheek. "Good luck, Francine."

"Lillie Mae, sir," she playfully corrected.

After allowing ample time for her to reach the third floor, he cranked the lever to raise the wood cage.

The guard straightened when Francine came into sight. They exchanged pleasant hellos and he went back to slouching against the wall when she turned the corner to the right. Francine located the dumbwaiter, slid the panel open and rolled the cart out.

"Sit tight, Mike," she whispered.

The guard straightened again. "Sorry, ma'am, but I can't permit you to pass."

"But, Sergeant—"

"Private, ma'am," he corrected.

"Oh, I am sorry, Sergeant, oops, I mean Private. Silly me." Blushing, Francine pressed her fingers to her lips. "I bet a big, strong young man like yourself will be a general one day."

"That's what my mother says, too."

Francine resisted the urge to groan. The last thing she wanted was to be compared to this fresh faced, eager-eyed boy's mother! The dark wig and glasses may have given her a slightly older appearance, but still—his mother! Yancy owed her for this. "I am sure she's right. You have the bearing of an officer."

"Thank you, ma'am," he said, eating up the flattery.

"May I deliver these refreshments to Colonel Morgan's suite now? My boss told me not to delay." Glancing at him with pleading eyes, she motioned to the teapot, porcelain cups and covered platter. "Please don't get me in trouble. I can't afford to lose my job here."

She inched closer to the wall as they spoke. His gaze followed her. With the private's back to the stairwell, Yancy snuck up from behind, grabbed him in a chokehold and rendered him unconscious. Pahoo helped Mike escape his uncomfortable accommodations.

"Yes, I understand that," Francine said, raising her voice a little for the benefit of the uniforms at the other end of the hall while they worked. "Why, thank you, Sergeant… I mean Private," she added once they were all in place.

With a parting wink, Francine continued on to the southeast wing. Two guards sat hunched over a table in the luxurious foyer, their rifles propped against the wall an arm's length away. The older of the duo, a gruff sergeant, raised his nose from his cards and scrutinized her with outward annoyance.

"Figures that kid let her pass," he muttered. "You can't be here, lady."

"Major—"

"Sergeant," he said, pointing to his stripes.

"I am terribly sorry, Sergeant. I just can't seem to get it right today."

"Just haul that cart away and all will be forgiven." He rolled his eyes and tossed a card down. "One for me."

"Sergeant, I must deliver this to Colonel Morgan or my boss will get a might angry with me."

"Look lady, there was some sort of mix-up. The colonel isn't even here right now."

Francine raised the lid off the platter and seized the Sharps derringer. "I'm aware of that. Now, if you boys would be so kind." They briefly stared agape before scrambling for the revolvers at their hips. "That would be harmful to your health," she cautioned, lifting the tablecloth to reveal Pahoo with his scattergun poised for action.

The two uniforms gulped and raised their arms in surrender.

Yancy joined them with the guard slung over his shoulder. Mike, pistol in hand, unlocked the door using a passkey and made a quick sweep of the room. "It's clear."

"After you, gentlemen," Yancy said, motioning toward the suite.

Inside, a spacious sitting area awaited them. French doors opened to a large balcony overlooking Jackson Square on their left. An intricate stone fireplace occupied the wall opposite the entrance. Francine kept watch on the balcony while Yancy unloaded his burden in the bedroom. Pahoo and Mike saw to it their other guests joined their fellow soldier in blissful unawareness.

Once the trio was securely bound, they focused on rearranging the sitting area. Pahoo moved two chairs so they were side-by-side on the solid wall shared with the bedroom. Yancy turned one of the fancier upholstered armchairs by the coffee table so it faced the entrance.

"There's Jody. He made the switch."

"Morgan won't be far behind him. Time to for you to leave this party, Francine. I don't want you caught in this if the situation goes bad."

"I'm staying, Yancy."

There wasn't time to argue with her, so he settled on offering a small smile to show his appreciation. She returned the smile, one tinged with another plea to be careful, and he winked. Mike took up position behind the door while Pahoo found cover next to the potted plant adjacent the threshold.

Morgan's irate voice carried inside. "Where is everyone? I'll have them all court-martialed! Cards… they're playing games while my life is in danger." The door swung open. "You had better find them."

"Oh, they're safe and sound, sleeping like babies," Yancy said, grinning with smug satisfaction. He casually relaxed in the upholstered chair and accepted the drink Francine offered. "Thank you, Lillie Mae."

"Derringer!" Morgan's eyes went wide. "Shoot him, you fools!"

The two uniformed bodyguards raised their rifles only to feel the cold metal of Pahoo's scattergun and Mike's revolver pressed into the flesh of their necks.

"Not a wise move, fellows," Mike advised. They laid down their weapons. "Over to the chairs."

His aim never wavering, Pahoo pushed the door using his foot so it was barely ajar. He tied and gagged the soldiers while Mike kept Morgan covered. Retrieving his scattergun, he resumed a place behind the colonel.

Huffing at the indignity, Morgan's stare shifted from Yancy to the chambermaid. Recognition suddenly shone on his face. "Madame Francine. I knew Derringer would seek you out."

"Yet you still couldn't catch him," she remarked with pride.

Morgan's nostrils flared. "I hope he was worth it. You're aiding and abetting a dangerous criminal. I'll see to it you hang beside him."

"Now that is no way to talk to her. Apologize to the lady." To emphasize he meant business, Yancy drew the Sharps from his vest and cocked the hammer. Pahoo shoved the muzzle in Morgan's back. "If my friend squeezes that trigger, there won't be anything left of you to identify."

"I—I'm sorry," Morgan muttered through clenched teeth.

"Was that so difficult?" Yancy inquired, setting his pistol on the small table to his right.

"What's your game, Derringer? If you were going to kill me, you would already have done it."

"Game? That's funny coming from you. Before that night at Francine's, I had never met you or heard of you, short of reading your name in the newspaper. Yet within seconds of learning my name, you launched into a spew of lies about my brother. The question I asked myself is why." Yancy sipped from the glass, his eyes locked on Morgan. "In that particular game, Mr. Evans was supposed to ensure I didn't live long enough to ask any questions. Too bad for you he failed."

Morgan visibly stiffened.

"Phillip Evans and I had a nice long talk overnight. I'm wondering how you ever made it to the rank of lieutenant colonel. You aren't very smart. Anyone who read that dossier he complied should have known to take out Pahoo, too."

"Who said anything about taking you out, Derringer? Evans can't tell you anything because there's nothing to tell." Morgan massaged his jaw. "Everyone saw you slug and attempt to shoot me."

"They also heard you brag of executing my brother for treason. David was killed at Chickamauga. Casualty lists and your own service record will prove you lied. Your future constituents might start wondering what else you're lying about."

"So I mistook him for someone else. It's hardly a crime."

"You specifically mentioned my brother was a spy and a traitor. Now David was never a traitor to the South, but he was a spy. How would you know that unless you had contact with him? The answer is simple. You sold him Union secrets."

"Grasping at straws, eh, Derringer?" Despite Morgan's outward nonchalance, there was a slight hitch in his breath. "Want to throw some mud on my name to ease your conscience?"

"See that man to your left behind you? He was David's partner in Philadelphia. Hmm, isn't that where you were stationed?"

Perspiration glistened on Morgan's brow as he glanced over his shoulder.

"My brother was able to cut the rails to stop ammunition from reaching Union troops in the South and rustle herds of fresh mounts right from under Yankee noses in Virginia based on information you provided him. He also swapped out counterfeit money and freed captured Confederate officers. But one of his most daring exploits was his first."

"That's when we impersonated Union officers and stole supplies," Mike detailed. "David presented them orders and they loaded our wagons."

Morgan gulped, his eyes flitting around the room for an avenue of escape.

Yancy set the glass next to his Sharps and played the gamble. "You needed to earn his trust, so you provided him with those orders. In the rush, you committed a single mistake by signing your name. There was always the possibility David saved those papers for leverage in case he was captured." He reached into his inner jacket and extracted a thin bundle of worn, tattered documents. "I imagine the sergeant who read these met misfortune soon after."

The soldiers tied to the chairs stared at their superior as Morgan fixated on the papers.

Yancy reached into his jacket and extracted a crisp, folded sheet. "If there is any doubt as to their veracity, I have a telegram from David's superior officer confirming the identity of his mole."

"You win, Derringer," Morgan seethed, "how much do you want for those?"

"I don't want your money. I want to hear you admit you're a traitor."

Morgan laughed. "I'm not going to beg like a coward, nor will I apologize for my actions. It was war. I did what I had to do to ensure my family's influence. Giving the Confederates a few crates of weapons and a bundle of cash was a small price to pay. I played my cards right. In a few years, I'll be calling the White House home. If the South had won, Davis and Lee would count me among their trusted circle."

"You're a traitor, Morgan. They would only trust you as far as they could throw you."

"We'll never know, now will we? I'm not going to let you or any other damn Rebel ruin me." Morgan shifted to peer over his shoulder again. As he turned back, he drew his revolver. "Tell your friend and that Indian to drop their weapons. If I die, I'm taking you with me."

Yancy nodded for them to yield.

"Now, against the fireplace where I can see you and lose the cane, cripple," Morgan ordered. Once Mike and Pahoo complied, he smirked. "Now, remove the pistol you keep in your sleeve, Derringer—slowly—along with the dagger. I did read that dossier. Toss your weapon aside, too, Madame Francine."

She pulled the Sharps from her apron pocket and set it on the floor.

"Now those papers, Derringer."

"You can't get away with this, Morgan," Yancy said. "Or are you willing to kill two of your own men?"

"I'm not going to kill them. You are." The soldiers' eyes widened and they fought against their binds. "You and your friends broke into my hotel room, shot my men and attempted to murder me, but I managed to stop you." Morgan smiled smugly. "That note will cease to exist and I'll be on my way to Europe with no one the wiser."

Yancy stood. "You'll have to pry these documents out of my cold dead hands."

"That can be arranged." Morgan fired two shots at Yancy. The impact sent his body lurching back in the chair, tipping it over. Francine screamed.

The door swung open. Colton and Captain Fry stormed into the room with a small detachment led by Lieutenant Edgerton steps behind them.

"Not so hasty, Mr. Administrator, or Madame Francine pays the price." Morgan kept the revolver aimed on her while kneeling next to the motionless body. As he grabbed the papers, a hand latched onto his wrist and he dropped the weapon in surprise. Yancy's fist collided with his jaw, sending Morgan sprawling to the floor.

"It can't be," he gasped. In a final act of desperation, he scrambled for the revolver Mike discarded earlier. His fingers mere inches from the handle, Pahoo's throwing knife landed between them with a distinct thud. Morgan trembled as Colton and Fry hauled him to his feet.

"Mr. Morgan, you are under arrest for attempted murder and treason," Colton announced.

"You can't prove anything," Morgan protested. "It's Derringer's word against mine."

Yancy adjusted his cuffs and accepted the papers from Pahoo. "The word of a two-bit Rebel might not stand up in court, but I'm confident a judge will deem the testimony of a federal administrator, a Secret Service agent and your soldiers to be admissible."

Colton smiled. "Take him away, Captain."

"Before he gets cozy in prison, perhaps Morgan would like to take a look at the evidence against him." Yancy handed him the two letters.

Morgan unfolded the older document first. Confused, he turned the pages over and examined the reverse sides. "It's blank." He tore at the telegram and met with another blank sheet. He glared at Yancy.

"You're not a very good poker player," Yancy remarked. "If you simply enjoyed your time in New Orleans, you would have gotten away with it. Your own guilt caused your downfall." The easy smile faded and he stood nose to nose with Morgan. "I should kill you for dragging my brother's name through the mud, but I'll take great pleasure in knowing that as you sit in a cell waiting to be marched out in front of a firing squad, you'll wish I had."

Fry led him away and Colton ordered Edgerton to free the privates. "Escort them to my office. I want official statements from both of them."

"Oh, Lieutenant," Yancy added, "There are three more in the bedroom."

Colton shook his head, but didn't say anything until the soldiers departed. "Thank you, Yancy. Your country owes you a debt of honor."

"I didn't do it for my country, Mr. Colton."

Taking his leave, the administrator halted in the doorway. "Oh, we apprehended a young lady in the lobby who has an assortment of wallets, watches and jewelry. She says she's a friend of yours."

Yancy grinned. "Savannah was instrumental in my nabbing Morgan. Since my country owes me a debt, I hope it might look the other way."

"Perhaps just this once," Colton replied.

Yancy tossed the knife back to Pahoo and collected his weapons. As he handed one of the Sharps to Francine, he arched an intrigued eyebrow. "That scream sounded real. If I didn't know better, I might think you cared." He wrapped his arms around her slender waist and pulled her close.

"You do have certain charms," Francine said, matching his teasing tone. Her hands traced a path from his shoulders to his neck. "I had to sell your death. Are you going to reward my remarkable skills?"

Yancy leaned down to kiss her. As they pulled apart, devilish sparks shone in her eyes. "I was thinking more along the lines of dinner and dancing."

"Anything Lillie Mae wants." With his arm still around her waist, they strolled out of the room.

Pahoo collected his scattergun and handed Mike his revolver and cane.

"Thanks. I wish I had some of that Derringer luck with women. I really owe David an apology."

* * *

As night descended on New Orleans, Yancy arrived at Madame Francine's club decked out in his best tuxedo, complete with a corsage of the finest flowers from Waverly's garden in hand. Jeremiah welcomed him at the door and offered to take his things. "I'm only staying long enough to sweep your boss into a waiting carriage." His eyes scanned the bustling crowd in the main parlor for his date.

The lady in question wove a path through her customers. "Hello, Yancy, Pahoo." She wore a sleeveless, off the shoulder gown in a shade of blue that matched her eyes. It was typical of her working attire.

"Not that you don't look beautiful, Francine, but aren't you, um, a little underdressed?"

"Unfortunately, our plans have been postponed, but I expect you to look this handsome tomorrow evening, too." She flashed a sly grin. "I'm holding you to that invitation of dinner and dancing."

His shoulders slumped in disappointment. "What do you mean postponed?"

"Don't you dare give me those puppy dog eyes, Yancy, it won't work. Two reasons." She pointed to John Colton emerging from the private room next to the bar. "One, the administrator—and, no, he's not here to arrest you. Two, a guest in the rear parlor awaits your arrival."

Before he could say anything, Pearl Girl approached sporting a shy smile. She patted the back of her hair while nibbling her bottom lip. "I'm sorry about conking you on the head, Yancy."

"No harm done. My daddy always said I had a thick skull."

She giggled and addressed Francine. "Mr. Fournier is asking to raise the table limit."

Francine offered him an apologetic smile. "Sorry, Yancy, duty calls. Oh, thank you for the flowers." She accepted the corsage before disappearing.

Yancy sighed. "It looks like I'm staying after all, Jeremiah." After surrendering his top hat and cape to the doorman, he proceeded to the bar with Pahoo at his side. "Hello, Mr. Colton."

"Good evening, Yancy, Pahoo." Colton returned the Pawnee's greeting. "I thought you would like to know Morgan confessed to everything in writing. He's pleading for leniency and practically got down on his hands and knees begging not to be put before the firing squad."

"Couldn't happen to a better man."

Colton arched an eyebrow at the unusual display of bitterness. "With his family connections, a stay of execution will probably be granted. He'll spend the rest of his life in prison."

"I got what I wanted, Mr. Colton. He proved himself a coward."

Colton nodded in understanding. "I can't fathom how this city ever survived two Derringers, but I would have been honored to meet your brother."

A soft chuckle escaped Yancy's throat. "I think he would have liked you, too."

"Where are Miss Savannah and Mr. Thompson?"

"They boarded a boat home about an hour ago."

The bartended filled a crystal glass with champagne and served it to the administrator. "Thank you. A young lady is expecting your company, Yancy. Francine made her comfortable in the rear parlor." Colton slid the goblet toward the perplexed gambler. "I promised to bring her a drink. I doubt she'll mind if you deliver it." He patted his friend on the shoulder. "I'll see you later."

Pahoo offered his observations.

"A full moon is about the only explanation that makes sense." The mention of a young lady piqued Yancy's curiosity. Francine had a strict rule stating no women in her club and she didn't exhibit the slightest hint of jealousy, much to his dismay. He watched Colton depart before turning his attention back to Pahoo. "It seems everyone aspires to be mysterious tonight."

With a shrug, he opened the door and froze in his tracks. "Nellie, what are you doing here?"

"Hello, Yancy." The tall brunette rose from the couch. "I took the first train headed south. Mr. Colton met me at the station and escorted me here. Madame Francine has been most kind." She took a few steps forward and gave him a warm hug. Looking around him as they pulled apart, she said, "Hello, Pahoo."

The Pawnee returned the greeting. Yancy led her to the couch and set the champagne glass on the small table. "That's not what I meant."

"I received a mysterious late night telegram regarding my husband. What did you expect me to do? I sensed there was more to it than you let on. Mr. Colton explained everything. Is it really over?"

"Yes. Morgan will be in jail for a long time."

"Thank you, Yancy."

"You don't need to thank me. No one gets to disparage my brother," he grinned, "except for me."

She laughed softly, keeping her gaze aimed on some knickknacks on a far shelf. Despite her obvious relief, there was a hesitant pause in her demeanor. He took her hand. "Nellie, are you all right?"

"When David was… When David died, it was too dangerous for me to travel east. Some families had their loved ones brought back home, but there wasn't much left of Waverly to bring David home to. Then my mama sent for me." She looked up with profound sadness in her eyes. "I never visited my husband's grave, never got to say a proper goodbye."

Yancy lowered his head as a wave of guilt washed over him. He spent three years wandering the country after the fighting ceased, yet also failed to visit his brother's final resting place.

"Yancy, will you accompany me there?"

"I'd be honored."

* * *

Hundreds of wooden markers dotted the rolling green fields as far as the eye could see. Large trees filtered the afternoon sunlight as Yancy and Nellie walked arm-in-arm along the paths of Marietta Cemetery with Pahoo staying a few feet behind. Some markers bore names. Many did not.

Nellie's hold on his arm tightened as the full weight of the lives lost sank in. "Oh, Yancy," she whispered, her voice quavering. Tears glistened in her eyes.

They continued at a slow pace until reaching the small section dedicated to soldiers from Louisiana. A few simple gravestones rested amongst the fifty or so hastily constructed crosses. Yancy was eternally grateful to Mike and David's fellow troops for seeing to it that he had a permanent memorial. He swallowed hard while staring at the engraving.

Capt. D. Derringer  
1834-1863

Nellie let go of Yancy. With hesitant steps, she knelt before the stone to lay flowers at the base. He joined Pahoo to allow her a few moments of private grief. When she rose, she kept her head bowed as she neared them.

"Yancy…" She spoke so softly he barely heard her. Nellie lifted her chin. "Yancy, maybe this isn't the proper time or place…"

"Whatever it is, you can tell me."

"There's a gentleman in Memphis…"

Yancy grinned knowingly. "And he wants to court you."

Nellie blushed. "He's incredibly sweet, but I don't want to be disloyal to David—"

He clasped her hands in his. "David would want you to be happy, not mourning him for the rest of your life. I'm confident you have his blessing, just as you have mine." At her grateful smile, he added, "Never forget you'll still be a Derringer and you're welcome at Waverly any time."

"Thank you, Yancy," she said, hugging him.

They started down the path when Yancy paused. Encouraging Pahoo to escort Nellie to the carriage, he returned to the gravestone. Tracing his fingers over the lettering, he remembered all the good times they had as children and the trouble they shared.

"Goodbye, David."

**The End**


End file.
